


Everything's About You to Me

by ghostbeer



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bucky is sad and so am I, CAN YOU TELL THIS ONE'S ABOUT BUCKY???, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Diary/Journal, M/M, One Writer's Mission to Process Their Bucky Barnes Feelings, POV Bucky Barnes, Pining Bucky Barnes, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), the alcohol mention is very mild and in chapter 2 but wanted to tag it in case xo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-06 10:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15884616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostbeer/pseuds/ghostbeer
Summary: My name is Bucky Barnes. I haven’t always known that, but he brought me back to myself. I dragged him from the river that day because he dragged me back home. I owed him for that.I’m Bucky Barnes. He’s Steve Rogers. And we belong together, even though he’ll never know.--In which Bucky finds himself suddenly Bucky again and learns the only things that helps him make sense of it are the idea of Steve and keeping a rough journal of the process.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the mess in the tags, I'm not quite sure how to nail this one down. Basically, I wanted to explore MCU-compliant Bucky and Stucky, so this beast came tumbling out of me. 
> 
> Title is from MUNA's "Everything" // (a key for the confused: capital H Him/He = the Winter Soldier)
> 
> I haven't written fic in many, many years, but this felt a little like a homecoming. Hope you enjoy my & Bucky's angst! <3

When he said my name, I knew. It had been a long, lonely, tortured 72 years, but his voice cut through that.  
“Bucky?”

 

He said it like a question, like I held the answer. Like, somehow, the answer could be no. I wanted it to be a no. I tried to make it a no. I fought it; I fought him. But the truth had hit me the second “Bucky?” left his lips.

 

My name is Bucky Barnes. I haven’t always known that, but he brought me back to myself. I dragged him from the river that day because he dragged me back home. I owed him for that.

 

I’m Bucky Barnes. He’s Steve Rogers. And we belong together, even though he’ll never know.

**\--**

 

I have been alone so long. I mean, I was alone all those years with Hydra, stuck inside a head that wasn’t even my own, fighting every second to stay alive, not even knowing that I was buried inside Him. But, also, I’ve been alone so long now without Him. It’s been a few years, I think. It’s hard for me to tell time properly. I’ve been so in and out of time for so long. Sometimes I think only minutes have passed and then I notice the sun’s gone down. Sometimes I’m afraid when I go to sleep that I won’t wake up, or, worse, that I will wake up with another one of His missions in my head. But always, even on the good days when I wake with the sun, manage to eat 3 meals, take time to remember by old life, and never find myself standing somewhere I don’t remember going, I am alone.

 

How could I not be? Who could I spend my days with who wouldn’t make me feel useless? Who could be around me who would feel safe? I’ve been alive too long—way too long—without learning anything about the world. And He used my hands to do too many unthinkable things. I look in the mirror and what it doesn’t show me in age, it shows me in grief. My face isn’t wrinkled, but my eyes are old and haunted. I know I didn’t do all those things on my own, but my hands still did them. I still looked at them all out of these eyes. It might have been Him, but it was still me. And because of that, I am alone.

 

I don’t trust my mind much. It shows me things I don’t want to see, things from my darkest days as Him, like they are happening now. More often than not, I wake up screaming, convinced I’m being conditioned again. And I can only sometimes open up the door to my actual life. Most of the time, I feel shut out from my memories of life as Bucky Barnes before.

 

The only thing I can count on is Steve. When I’m unsure, shaken, I turn my thoughts to him. Without fail, remembering him grounds me. Sometimes it’s not even remembering. Sometimes I just imagine him. What he’s doing right now, halfway across the world. When my head is swimming with too much noise, I imagine him at home, curled up in the armchair he used to love when we were kids, reading the paper. And I know that betrays me for the deluded old man I am—he couldn’t still have that chair, and I don’t have any idea if he physically could curl up in it anymore. Also—do people even still read the newspaper? I have no idea. But it helps me to think about Steve—sometimes he looks like the one I grew up with and sometimes he’s the one I fell away from all those years ago—and to imagine perfectly the line between his brows that’s always there when he concentrates. When I can’t find myself in my own head, I try to remember which finger he always bit when he read or how his voice sounded when he would ask me, nearly every night the week after his mom died, “Stay?”

 

My favorite escape is picturing Steve’s new life at home. I have to live sparsely—any second I could snap and lose it all; no point in putting down roots—but Steve must have a real life at this point. I let myself run wild. I imagine him in a big place with big windows to let the light in on him in the morning, the way he likes. I picture a big kitchen that he barely knows how to use, burning things easily and sustaining himself on peanut butter sandwiches just like he always has. I give him the nice record player he always wanted and all the records he used to bug me about. In my head he somehow did rescue that big red armchair he loved so much; he’s there more often than he is in the plain, big bed I’ve given him. He spends a lot of time at home in my head. I watch him read, listen to records, flip through TV stations, sketch, and write. In my head, Steve keeps lists like me.

 

And, most of the time, I imagine him alone like me. This one’s a defense mechanism, I think. For one thing, Steve was never a solitary guy. Even before he…changed and people started paying attention to him, he drew people in. If he wasn’t getting himself into trouble with me by his side, he was paling around with Mr. Rosetti at the butcher, or keeping his mom company while she sewed the holes in his knees for the hundredth time. And for another thing, I _know_ Steve isn’t alone now. When I saw him last is, of course, a blur because it was mostly Him. But there were other people with Steve then. People he cared about; people he protected from Him—from me. The redhead girl, the one with the wings; I remember them well enough, but they never make it to Steve’s apartment in my head. Someone has to be filling his time, his life, (his big, plain bed), in real life. But I don’t like to think about that. In the quiet moments where I need him to center me, it’s just Steve.

 

I don’t know where I’m going, and I have a hard time putting a finger on where I’ve been, but I know both of them involve Steve. Even if I never get the chance to see him again, he’s with me in my head.

 

**\--**

 

When we were kids, I don’t think either of us knew for sure, but I think I had an inkling. It just wasn’t done, you know, in our circles. You grow up best friends with a guy in Brooklyn, he’s your brother. There are some moments that stick in your mind—like when you have to squeeze close on a crowded train after a Dodgers game—but you don’t make anything more of them. Sure, you hear whispers about what they do in Manhattan, but that’s got nothing to do with you. You keep your head down, pal around with your almost-brother, and go on as many dates with beautiful girls as you can. Didn’t matter that none of them ever felt right. It’s what was done. So I did it. And Steve tried to as well, though the girls we knew never seemed to take him seriously. And, if I’m honest, I never felt too compelled to help him out.

 

You don’t _know_ back then, but a part of you does. A part of me was happy when Steve would knock on my door and I would open it to find him downtrodden, rejected yet again by Mary Whatshername. A secret part of me knew that meant he would be in one of his vulnerable moods, needing me to soothe him and not trying to play tough like he always did. It meant he would want to sit on the sofa and listen to the radio or his favorite record of mine, and he would tuck his feet under my legs because _god_ , he was always cold back then. And that part of me that _knew_ would light up with electricity at the feeling of his touch. That secret part of me kept quiet, but sometimes I wonder if I didn’t ignore it on purpose.

 

It’s easy to look back now and see it, though. You go through enough in your life and suddenly old pretenses aren’t worth keeping up. It was always Steve for me. I can admit that now. When we were kids, he made me feel understood in a way no one else ever did. When mom and dad went at it, Steve didn’t ever ask me to talk about it, He just opened his bedroom window, let me climb in off the fire escape, and lay down head-to-foot with me in his bed until I stopped crying. He never looked at me while I was crying, which I would have hated, and I have no idea how he knew not to. And I have no idea how he always knew what story to tell me while I tried to calm down, but he always picked the right one. Sometimes, when I was choking back tears I wanted to pretend weren’t in my eyes and he was rattling on about the time his dad rescued an injured bird from the train tracks or whatever, I would feel his hand rest lightly on top of mine. My penchant for listening to him quietly, his measured distraction, and his silent physical assurance—I never found anything close to this kind of understanding in anyone else.

 

And then the war hit and everything changed, I got called up and knew Steve wouldn’t. In one of my stupider moments, I avoided really saying goodbye to him on my last night. In fact, I engineered nearly the opposite evening from the one I wanted. I knew what it meant to go over there—it wasn’t lost on me that I was joining Steve’s dead dad’s exact division. If I had been ready to face that, I would’ve asked Steve if we could spend that night at his place, drinking, listening to whatever records he wanted, and laughing about our childhoods. I would have maybe even mustered up the courage to tell him how much he meant to me, that he would be the thing I missed most, that I could hardly bear the thought of maybe never seeing him again. But I _wasn’t_ ready for that truth. So I shoved it down, way down, and planned a loud, brash night to silence my feelings in true Bucky Barnes fashion. At the end, I tried to convince him to be safe, to stay home, we shared some banter and a quick hug, and that was it. For all I knew and expected, that would be the last time I saw Steven Grant Rogers, and I half-assed it.

 

I got over there and my old life didn’t seem real anymore. Everything was fire and smoke and strife. I tried to write home, to Steve, but they told me there was no one at that address anymore. I assumed he somehow got himself over here and killed or into enough trouble at home and killed. At that point in my life, it was safer to assume everyone was dead than not, I was numb to it after a while. Which just prepared me for later, I guess; that numbness made its home in me and served me well. They captured us and picked a few of us to experiment on. I still don’t know why they picked me, why they set me on this path. It keeps me up nights, wondering why me, thinking about all the people who would have been safe from Him if maybe they grabbed the guy next to me instead.

 

I thought I was dead when Steve— _new_ , big Steve—showed up that night. I thought my broken mind dreamt up some farfetched fantasy to comfort me as I finally faded away. It made sense that my brain would choose him. If you’re gonna leave this world, wouldn’t you want the only person who has ever understood and truly loved you to be the one by your side?

 

But then, somehow, it was real. He was there, saving me, and somehow _that_ was real life. There was a moment, as the place I was certain I would die in crumbled around us, that he asked me to leave him behind. It was the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to me. I screamed at him, furious that he would even ask me to consider it. How could I leave him behind? My whole life I’d been asking Steve to understand the way my heart was centered on him. That moment cut through my numbness and brought me back to life. I had just got him back, I wasn’t going to lose him again.

 

Not yet, anyway.

 

**\--**

 

Back when it first happened, I wasn’t sure what to make of New And Improved Steve Rogers. I mean, look, I’m not blind or dead, _parts_ of me were definitely intrigued. But it didn’t feel like _Steve_ to me. At first, anyway.

 

So much of my idea of Steve was based on his, well, smallness. I spent most of our lives before helping him with everything—getting things from high shelves, carrying groceries, backing down angry guys twice his size—it seemed _wrong_ to not be doing that for him anymore.

 

And so much of Steve was based on his complexes about his physical self. His sense of duty was always there, but it would be naïve to say that it wasn’t at least partially driven by his need to prove himself. He always acted like if maybe he did the _right_ thing enough times, people would take him seriously. His confidence, when it was there, came mostly from spite than belief in himself. I think I maybe got lucky in some ways that Steve was born the way he was. It gave him reasons to need me and kept a lot of other people from realizing what they were missing, giving me the chance to monopolize him. Nobody could see who Steve was on the inside except me; I got to keep him as my personal secret.

 

So when he came bursting back into my life, a body to match the man I always knew he was inside, I was thrown. We got back to camp, safe, all of us, thanks to him, and suddenly all eyes were on Steve for the first time in my life. And there was a woman, a gorgeous woman, looking at him the way I knew in my heart I wanted to. It all seemed so strange, like it was from another life. I caused a ruckus, got everyone to cheer for Steve, mostly to hide my own discomfort. As soon as I could, I snuck away, afraid my face would betray my unease.

 

But later that night, Steve and I finally got a chance to talk. I did my best to let him know that for me, it didn’t matter who he physically was. What I wanted to say, what I _almost_ said—what I will always regret not saying—is that I had followed him through everything before, and I would follow him through everything after. To follow or to love—what’s the difference?

 

But then there she was again, glowing at the sight of him and making him glow too, and I knew it was over before it began. It hurt, but it wasn’t the first or last time I’d been hurt, and it helped me understand this new Steve.

 

He was the same guy I had always known—the guy who stayed up nights to help his ma clean after late shifts, even though the chemical fumes and dust flared up his asthma, and the guy who never turned down a fight when it involved the reputation of someone he cared about—he just finally had a form that made people pay attention to him. He was still picking fights with bullies in the name of people he cared about, just now he stood a chance of winning. I could never be mad that other people loved New Steve, even if I was a little jealous.

 

And, I mean, he wasn’t half bad to look at, either.

 

**\--**

 

I try desperately not to think about my lost years, the years I was Him. They were as dark as days can be. I was a machine they used. There was nothing else except instruction and compliance and pain. I knew they completely destroyed me because I forgot Steve. At the beginning of it all, when they dragged me, broken and bleeding, from the snow, I thought I could cling to myself if I clung to a few visceral things—the light on the water in the morning on the East River, the smell of popcorn in Ebbets Stadium, ma’s humming, Steve’s laugh—but slowly they all fell away. One day I was focusing as hard as I could on the way his hand felt on mine when I was crying, and the next he was gone. And so was I.

 

But I’m back now, and I have no intention of ever forgetting him again. It’s not safe for me to go back to a normal life, but I’m committed to remembering when I had one. I’ve filled in the gaps of stuff I missed—and I intend to remember it all. That’s why I’m writing here, to have a record of my head (and maybe even my heart) so that in case He comes back, He can know I am still there inside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eep, thank you for reading! I have this entire thing written, I just thought I would give myself some time to breathe between posting chapters. I'll put the next one up later this week!
> 
> comments and kudos are so appreciated. :)


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky realizes the truth of his new life, has a bit too much vodka but much more of an epiphany, and finds himself once again face-to-face with Steve Rogers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 takes us from the post-Winter Soldier time period all the way through the events of Civil War.
> 
> sharon carter? never heard of her.

There isn’t much for me in this life. When I ran away from Steve after I pulled him from the water, most of me didn’t _want_ to remember my old life. I think that was mostly a self-defense thing.

It only took a few days on my own, away from Hydra, to piece together what happened to me. It wasn’t that they had been making impressive tech advancements super quickly, it was that my times in the ice were much longer than I had ever thought. Or not thought. In fact, before I got away from them, I never even considered my surroundings on missions. But the longer I was on my own, the less things made sense. I knew I had been Him for a long time, but 70 years? If I had been that way for 70 years, that meant everyone I knew was dead or dying, that everything I understood about life had changed. Once I could remember them, I tried my best to track down Ma and Pa. Our old place in Brooklyn was torn down, not that they would have been there anyway. So I went to three of the cemeteries I could remember, but I never found them. Now that I know more about the internet—what a terrible thing to have to learn on your own—I bet I could find out what happened to them, but I’m not sure how much it would help. When I left the States after what happened with Steve, I sort of left behind that pain. I don’t know what good opening that door would do.

Once I got here, I mostly focused on catching up on things that didn’t hurt so much. Like, did you know the Dodgers moved to _Los Angeles_ of all places? And Brooklyn is a place people choose _over_ Manhattan now? And did you know that Steve Rogers is a household name still, even all the way over here? Just the other day in the market, I overheard two girls debating whether Steve was a virgin. I don’t know how much I would enjoy knowing the answer to that, (especially if it’s _no_ ), but I was happy to hear that neither the redhead or the one with the wings seems to be… _with_ him, according to the market girls’ gossip.

Every now and then, in my weaker moments, I’ll write him a letter by hand, telling him where I am, what I’ve been up to, that I’m sorry. I can never send them, but he deserves to hear from me, to know that he saved me. The way he looked at me, when I was fighting my way out of inside Him, was filled with so much pain. It obviously means something to him that I remember him. So when I’m feeling like total shit, I get out the only worthwhile thing I own, a nice pen that reminds me of my mom, and I write him pages and pages. I tell him that I remember him, of course I do. I tell him I wouldn’t have made it, not ever, not in any period of my long and fucked up life, without him. I tell him that the sound of his voice calling me “Bucky” was the first thing that felt real in my life since I fell from that train. I tell him that on the rare night I have a good dream, he’s always in it. And I tell him that I don’t want to live another second of my life without him in it, because what’s the point of being alive this long if he’s here too but not with me?

I don’t send the letters; I _can’t_ send the letters. But I don’t think they would be shocking to him. Steve has always been a little more obtuse than me when it comes to feelings, but he’s not an idiot. Plus, as much as he has obviously found new people to care about, I’m for him, too, what he is for me. We’ve always understood each other in a different way than other people, but now we are literally the only people alive who have even remotely similar life experiences. I can’t be the only one of us who feels like he _needs_ the other. Even if Steve could never bring himself to feel about me the way I do about him, I know he would want me around. We’ve always occupied each other’s hearts, it’s just that now, I’ve got no one else left in mine except him.

Maybe one day I will feel safe enough to reach out. Maybe in a decade or so, if they’ve passed without incident, I will feel like I can find him again. Hopefully he won’t have gotten himself killed by then—or worse, have forgotten me.

 

**\--**

 

I got drunk last night. It took about 20 times as much alcohol as it would take a normal person, but if there’s a benefit to living in Romania, it is the 24/7 availability of cheap, strong liquor.

I wouldn’t say I have any friends here, but Gregor would be the closest thing I have to that. He doesn’t know my name—I can’t afford for him to—but he calls me “boy” in a way I find both endearing and hilarious. If only he knew how old this “boy” is. Gregor owns the “bar” around the corner from where I stay. It’s not really so much a bar as it is a small concrete storage building for liquor, a broken jukebox, and people who look like they’ve been run over by a truck or two. I fit in pretty well, and I come here so often to try desperately to drink enough to forget that Gregor occasionally doesn’t even gripe when I bring in my own booze.

Despite its total lack of charm or cleanliness or really _any_ positives, Gregor’s place is always packed. It’s kind of a haven for lowlifes in the area, I guess. So last night when I bought Gregor’s entire stash of vodka—which, by the way, is a _lot_ of vodka—there were plenty of people ready and willing to share it with me. (Don’t ask me where I got the money—let’s just say people will pay a pretty penny for a little bit of strategic, showy strength on their side.)

After enough vodka to kill a few other guys, I started to feel a buzz for the first time in a long time. It really is fucked that it takes so much effort to get me there anymore; all I ever want to be doing is not thinking about my fucking life and enjoying myself for a second. One of the beneficiaries of my vodka-based generosity was a young English guy, probably 25, named Ian, or Liam, or Heath, or something else very, very English. He was smart, quick to understand that there was no way I was going to explain how I could drink 5 whole bottles and still stand. He had bright eyes and light hair and a smile that sort of crept slowly from his eyes to his mouth.

He made me laugh, really laugh, for what felt like the first time since 1942. And, to be totally honest, I was blown away by his blatant flirting. It was something I’d always wanted to do but thought of as a pipe dream. He stared me hard in the eyes, unblinking, as he told me I was good-looking. He placed a hand on my forearm—(luckily the real one)—and used the term ex-boyfriend like it was the most normal thing in the world, which I guess it probably is for people who weren’t born in 1917. I don’t know how he knew I was—what's the term they use now, gay? But his attention made me feel like I was really _alive_ , like maybe this whole shitfucked time travel life I lead means I might get to be who I wanted to this time around. (If I managed to keep Him at bay, anyway.)

By the time Gregor kicked us out I had finally downed enough liquor to make me feel unsure in my footing and unguarded enough to be able to actually reciprocate Brit Boy’s flirting. Somewhere between stumbling through Gregor’s door without my coat and knocking over a signpost that a non-Super Soldier definitely wouldn’t be able to knock over, I found myself gushing. I told him how gorgeous his smile was, how into his body I was, how much I had been thinking about kissing his perfect lips.

And then we _were_ kissing. He was on my mouth, heat passing through his lips onto my cold face. I felt his arms snake around me and had to concentrate all my drunk mental energy on not touching him too heavily with my, uhh, augmented arm. I felt like a completely different Bucky Barnes, but in a way that felt organic for the first time in my life. His lips found my neck and his hands explored me—as I made sure to keep my metal arm planted firmly on the classy dumpster we ended up next to—and I felt like I had unlocked something I always kept hidden before.

In between ragged breaths and a few well-timed moans, I heard myself telling him my place was just around the corner and that I wanted to get out of the cold. He quickly agreed, but I realized I had no idea what going back to my place would mean. Even back in my heyday, I never invited anyone back to my place. In fact, the only person I’ve ever shared a bed with in any context is, well, you already know that.

But back to my place we went anyway. I don’t really know how we made it up the stairs without ever stopping our necking, but sooner rather than later we were in my pathetic dump together. I was in the process of tearing off his clothes when he started to try to take off my shirt. I intrinsically snapped, grabbing his hand in mine to stop him. I’m afraid I might have hurt him a little because he recoiled. I clumsily explained that I lost my arm in the war (luckily he didn’t ask which one) and that I had a prosthetic replacement, except of course I forgot the word for prosthetic and said something like “aesthetic.” He insisted he didn’t care and proceeded to wrest my shirt and glove off. And again he said he didn’t care, but I could see vague curiosity and aversion in his eyes when he could finally see it in all of its dumbass chrome glory.

But, and not to be too cocky here, he seemed quickly distracted by my, uhh, other super soldier attributes. A few times I noticed him recoil from the touch of metal, but in his defense it was very cold and he was very nude.

The rest of the evening went about as you’d expect, a lot of sweat and grunts and a little awkward fumbling on my part, but for the most part it was successful. I’m not proud to admit that at one point he asked me if I had any lube or condoms and all I had to offer was Vaseline and _nothing_ on the protection front. But he found something in his wallet and we made it work; I didn’t have the guts to tell him he would be my first. I’m not really interested in getting blue, but there are things that I wanted that just wouldn’t work for me the first time, so we improvised and I had a good time regardless.

I am also not proud to say that many, many times while it was happening, I wasn’t thinking of Nigel/Gareth/Craig. He pressed against me or kissed my chest or stroked my neck and my drunk mind was only on Steve. That’s so stereotypical and sentimental, but liters of vodka will do that to a man.

We finished and I lay there on my back, nonmetal arm underneath him, and watched the ceiling spin. Part of me knew that I would regret some things in the morning—for instance, I had no idea what a Super Soldier hangover might be like—but another, louder part of me felt free for the first time in a long time. I had always wanted men deep down, (well, I mean, usually one _particular_ man but whatever), but I never imagined I would get to really live it out. I fell asleep feeling mostly dizzy, but also grateful for the first time in a long, long time.

The feeling didn’t last long.

I woke up early, just as the sun was coming up, and English Boy was already gone. With him, so went my wallet, my liquor stash, and my piece of shit frying pan, for some reason. I wouldn’t say I am surprised, but I have to admit I didn’t really see that coming. I guess that’s what you get for spending a lot of money very publicly in a bar for shitheads. When I realized what Cliff/Harry/Alfie did, I rolled back over and slept for another 12 hours.

It turns out Super Soldier hangovers are just essentially hibernation.

 

**\--**

 

It happened so fast I barely even had time to register it, but Steve came back in and out of my life. There’s too much to recap to be able to do it justice, and a lot of it is more painful than I’d care to revisit on purpose. I hurt more people, something I swore I’d never do again, and I lost whatever semblance of privacy I had made for myself in my meager life.

I’m okay now, hidden away and fixed—free from Him for the first time in my new life. Shuri, my savior and constant delightful annoyance, fought for my continued life here in Wakanda before I even knew her, before I was thawed for good. She un-broke my head and gave me my first friendly hug in 70 years. I’m still not sure which one really did me more good, but don't tell her I said that.

She even got me my own place here. I’ve never really been much of a rural guy—I grew up with the city in my bones, but Wakanda isn’t like any rural place I’ve ever been. Life here is idyllic, which is not a word I ever thought I would say seriously, but it’s the only way to describe it. I have a little house in a field outside the city, and I’m in charge of a small herd of goats. I suspect that my neighbor is actually the person who keeps the goats in line and that Shuri mostly gave me them as a way to keep me from getting stir crazy. She seems to think that because I’m from New York that I'm missing some sort of metropolitan lifestyle. I’ve tried to tell her that my New York and her vision of New York have 70 years of difference, but it never seems to have much of an effect. She really has nothing to worry about; I haven’t been this calm in my whole life. Every morning I wake up when I want to, go to town and chat with whoever I feel like, eat whatever sounds good, and do what seems interesting. And I am never afraid He will come out, take over, and use me to hurt someone.

I am free to learn how to be Bucky Barnes, unbridled. Free to dare to be happy for once. What once felt like an impossibility is within my grasp, and that is both terrifying and thrilling.

I’m just missing Steve. He came barreling back to me so fast that I barely had time to appreciate it. Obviously there were other priorities. Seeing him again felt like I could finally breathe, like I had been holding my breath since I left him on the side of the river. But we had things to deal with, my worthless name to clear.

Honestly, if it had been up to me, I would have given myself up. But that’s not Steve’s style, and, if I might be so bold, I don’t think he could give me up. In the years we’d been apart I was worried he might have moved on from me, might have realized all the horrific things He did with my hands and decided I wasn’t worth caring about anymore. But even after He came back out to play, Steve was still there.

He trapped my arm in a vice, but he called me Buck. He looked me in the eyes and called me Buck. The second he did, I knew he was still as far gone as I was. Even a self-loathing dumbass like me can’t deny the way he looked at me, like I was a miracle he couldn’t believe was real.

We didn’t have time—why have we _never_ had time—but I tried to make the most of a bad situation. The entire time we were together I kept my eyes on him, like if I looked away he would disappear. And in the first quiet moment we had alone, I almost said something. How pathetic I am that I’m always almost saying something but never actually fucking _saying_ it. But we were on that plane, and it was just me and him, and the air felt electric because of the weighted silence.

And I really was just about to tell him everything—that I’ve missed him from the second we were separated in 1942, that I’ve never felt the way I feel about him about anyone else, that my life could never feel complete if he wasn’t in it—when I caught sight of the pain on his face. I hadn’t even really considered the cost of what he had done for me, but there it was on his face. So I did what I knew he needed—I asked him about them, his friends.

He seemed surprised that I wanted to know, but he, slowly at first and then faster than light, told me about each one. He spoke about some of them like a proud dad—in particular one named Wanda—and some of them like a disapproving uncle—like Clint. And he told me about ones I’d never met—a doctor and a god—like somehow someday they would be friends of mine, too. And he talked about a few of them like they’d been in his life forever; I learned my little jealousy of Red and Wings might be justified after all. Listening to him talk about them all with so much affection in his voice made my heart hurt, to be honest. How full his life had become while mine stayed so empty. He even eventually brought himself to talk about Stark. He said it all in whispered tones, like it was sacrilege to talk about a friend you’re fighting with, (sometimes Steve is so Steve Rogers it makes me sick). And the way he talked about him, I knew this fight wouldn’t last forever. Steve’s never been good at hiding admiration.

He talked and talked, and I made a home in listening to his voice. It felt like we were heading to an end, so after I told him about Stark’s parents, something I couldn’t keep secret any longer, I didn’t say another word until we landed. I wanted to spend what I thought might be our last moments together just taking him in.

Things happened quickly from there. I was confronted with sudden and intractable envy for the slain Super Soldiers, still frozen in sleep in their pods, untested and untainted by the things Hydra would have made them do. Why wasn’t I among them? I found myself in those moments, in which Steve and Stark were all action, paralyzed once again with the what ifs of my life.

On my darkest days I wished I didn’t exist; in these next moments, in which Stark and I both watched in horror the things He had done with my hands, I wished I was dead.

Steve fought for me, even though I didn’t deserve it. That’s how it had really always been with Steve, him caring for me without stopping to think if he should. Didn’t matter if I started the fight, if I was the one who kicked sand in a jerk’s face or talked back too much to my dad—or, fuck, killed someone’s _parents_ —Steve was always beside me, or more likely in front of me, trying to take the blows I earned.

I tried to get out, to run away from Stark and his rightful fury, from my haunted fucking past, but he was too quick. Adrenaline kicked in and carried through most of a fight that, in my heart, I wanted to lose. I know, logically, that I didn’t intend to do all those things, that I would never have chosen to take someone’s parents from them, but the pain in me about it was too strong. To watch myself do that, to know the hands I use to read the paper or make coffee or write this fucking thing were the same hands that fired those shots and snuffed out those lives—it was too much for me to bear. I’d never had to directly face the gaping wounds I ripped open in people as Him before. Stark, who Steve talked about with such reverence that he couldn’t even raise his voice above a whisper, looked at me like I was pure evil. And I didn’t have it in me anymore to deny him that feeling. Rote self-preservation moved me, but if Steve hadn’t been there to stop him, I know I would have let Stark kill me eventually.

When Steve carried me, battered, busted, and missing yet another arm, away from Stark’s injured body, I felt no sense of triumph. Steve called me his friend, very obviously chose me over his new life, at least in some way. But it felt hollow. Our trip back to the jet was silent. His eyes were far away, and I didn’t know if I even wanted them focused on me. Not after what he just had to do _because_ of me.

Eventually Steve picked a destination for us, set up autopilot, and left the cockpit without a word. Just as he was about to cross out of my vision he stopped, and without turning to look at me, reached a hand down and squeezed my uninjured shoulder tightly for just a moment.

I was glad he kept walking because that small touch made me cry for the first time in as long as I can remember, which, admittedly, isn’t that long. As quiet as could be, I let the tears come, for what had just happened, for what I had done to Steve’s life, for what I had done to Stark’s, for what I had done to so many people I would never know. I cried for the half life I had now and for the one that was stolen from me decades ago. I cried for my mom, for the Dodgers’ move across the country, for the way radios used to sound. I cried for what I had with Steve and for what I wanted so badly to share with him now. My shoulders shook with the grief and with the weight too heavy for even me to carry.

And though it felt like there would never be enough time for me to properly cry, I decided it was probably time to pull myself together. After all, Steve was the one who actually lost something that day. So I got up to grab something to wipe down my face with when I noticed him. In the far corner of the jet, Steve was curled up on a cot. The dangling fabric was shaking a bit, and as a small beam of light broke through the clouds outside, I saw the smallest glint of light reflected off a tear on Steve’s face.

Instinctively I closed the gap between the cot and me in a second. “Scoot over, Rogers,” I said, softer than I had heard my voice in a while. He shot a quick glance in my direction, but obliged. We barely fit next to each other—half of me was hanging off the edge of the cot—but I lay down head-to-foot with him and gently rested my hand on top of his. He moved his hand almost imperceptibly, as if embarrassed by my touch, but I put gentle pressure on it to remind him. _This_ , my touch was meant to say, _is how we've always been_. And just to make sure he knew, I slid my hand down, laced my fingers with his, and held on tight. In an instant, he tightened his around mine. He didn’t say anything, but I felt his body relax against my side.

“Did I ever tell you about Gregor?” I began. Of course I hadn’t, and of course there was no point in telling him. When we landed wherever we were going, I thought I would be locked away again, possibly for good. But when I started talking, he relaxed even more. I told him about Gregor and about my adventures in testing my alcohol tolerance (conveniently leaving out any trysts that went along with that), and I told him about the girls in the market speculating about his chastity. He laughed at that one, and I paid closer attention to the sound of it than I had ever focused on something before. I wanted to capture it in my mind again, to savor the depth of it before it was too late. I kept telling him stories, just like he used to tell me, and I never let go of his hand, just like he used to keep a hold on mine.

Eventually, with about an hour left in our trip, I ran out of stories to tell. There’s only so much I have in my head that is worth sharing, in the end. I could tell he wasn’t crying anymore, and frankly there wasn’t enough room on the cot for Steve alone, much less the both of us, so I started to sit up and move back to my seat in the cockpit. But when he felt my hand slip from his and my weight shift, he grabbed my wrist.

From my lying position, I hadn’t been able to see his face, but now, in the odd glow of the electronic light of the ship and from my upright position, I caught his eyes. They were surprisingly serious, almost hungry. Or maybe desperate? His grip tightened on my wrist, as intense as his eyes, and he said softly “Stay?”

My lips parted, caught off guard by the need I could see in his face and how much I had missed him needing me like that. And so I lay back down next to him, still dangling, body electric along the side where ours met.

When he asked me to, what else could I do besides stay?

           

He left me in Wakanda without ceremony. I was pleasantly surprised that he hadn't taken me to a prison or something, but his attitude still threw me off. Compared with the charged moments we spent hand-in-hand on the jet, it was like another world. I don’t know what I wanted to happen; it’s not like Steve was going to suddenly realize he was in love with the man who had just passively ruined his life and scoop me off my feet into a Hollywood-style kiss. But I guess I wasted yet another opportunity to say a proper goodbye to him. A short conversation, a small smile shared between us, a blast of cold, and then nothing.

When Shuri woke me a few months later, she was speaking to me rapid-fire about everything that had happened in Wakanda. A coup and a civil war and open trade with the rest of the world, all of it was important, I knew. But my mind was foggy and the only thing I could think about, the only thing pulling me back from the depths of sleep was Steve’s deep laugh and the warmness of him beside me the day I went under. I looked around for him in the lab; some irrational part of my brain was sure he would be there. But it was just Shuri and I, her pacing and explaining things to me that I couldn’t process yet.

I should have asked him to stay.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, I'm choosing to believe Steve breaking the gang out of the raft happens after the Bucky drop-off, and YES I know it throws off the whole thing I'm trying to do here, but w/e w/e w/e.
> 
> thanks for reading chapter two!! i'll have the third and final bit up in a couple days. stay tuned! <3
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are appreciate :)


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wakanda brings a lot of things to Bucky: peace, community, a small number of goats, and—finally—Steve Rogers again.

How do I tell this next part?

I’ve been spending my days here in Wakanda happily. I am safe in the knowledge that I will not be disturbed by Him, never disturbed by the feeling of my mind slipping out of my grasp. I’ve gotten a hang of the goat herding thing and picked up a hobby or two, (but won’t be letting anyone see the awful watercolor paintings produced by the fearsome assassin Bucky Barnes any time soon).

A month or so ago, right after I finally felt like I had my feet firmly underneath me again, a palace worker crested the top of the hill near my little house. “MR. BARNES!” she called dramatically, even though I was already looking at her. She looked out of breath, like she’d run all the way from the city center. When she got to me I could see her eyes were glinting cheerily, which dismissed the worry that sprouted in me the second she called my name.

“Uh, yeah, hi,” I said. “What’s the rush, kid?”

She smiled with her whole face and said, “There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Barnes! I’m not supposed to say who it is, so do not even ask me!”

But I didn’t have to ask. Who else could it have been?

I immediately started fumbling in my pockets, looking for the key to the small vehicle Shuri insisted I take when I told her I’d rather live on the outskirts than in the city proper. I never use the thing, but I didn’t want to have to wait to see him any longer, (not to mention I wanted to avoid getting even grubbier than I already was by walking there). The girl noticed me clumsily trying to figure out how the key worked and put a hand on my forearm to stop me.

“No, no, Mr. Barnes, he is—I mean _they are_ already on their way here, to you!” She tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle at the instant shock that passed onto my face. I looked down at myself, arm and hand covered in dust and dirt from my morning routine and bottom half clad in some honestly _unbelievably_ ill-fitting pants. I wouldn’t say I’m ever that concerned with how I look, but this was maybe the worst look possible for a reunion I’d been hoping for since the second I regained consciousness.

The girl must have registered the panic on my face because she said simply “Go, go. I will buy you some time,” as she waved me back towards my house. I looked at her with my most sincere Thank You face and rushed inside, where I took the world’s fastest shower and found some clothes without too many visible holes. Just as I managed to throw all my dirty laundry into a closet and look in the mirror to steel myself to what was about to happen, I heard the sound of an engine approach. Part of me—most of me—wanted to rush out the front door, to not waste any more time. But a stronger part of me felt frozen to the spot.

For a long time after I woke up, I hoped Steve would come to see me. I guess I wanted to show him I was safe now, free from the specter of a double personality. I knew he was busy; running from the U.S. government is a full-time job, I guess. But I still hoped he would come to see with his own eyes what Shuri had been able to do to fix me. I know they sent him a message the day I woke up, and I kept thinking he might just turn up to celebrate with me.

But he never did. Enough months went by and I stopped hoping. Either he couldn’t come to Wakanda or, worse, he wouldn’t. I knew he was alive because every time he checked in, Shuri would not-so-casually mention it to me. “ _Sooo_ , Captain Rogers called my brother this morning,” she would say with a mischievous grin. “He asked about you again.” I always rolled my eyes in response because I knew she only wanted to get a rise out of me, but inside it made me ache. He asked, sure, but he never came.

I started up my old habit of writing letters to him that I would never send. It occurred to me that this time there was a really easy way for me to actually contact him, but communication is a two-way street, as my mom used to say. Steve never called me. After a month of so, he called T’Challa almost every week and even sometimes Shuri; he asked them about Wakanda and their personal lives and my progress. But he never called _me_. Once, I stepped into T’Challa’s quarters to ask him a quick question, and they were still on the line together. T’Challa said, “Ahh, Sergeant Barnes! I’m on the phone with Captain Rogers. Would you two like to catch up?” and even though I had overheard them in the middle of a discussion, on the other end of the line Steve quickly said, “Actually, looks like something just came up here. I’ll have to call you back next week. G’bye.” Clearly, he wasn’t dying to talk to me while on the run.

So, I wrote him letters I wouldn’t send instead. The process of it came rushing back to me. I told him how ecstatic I was to finally have my whole self back, to live without fear for the first time in decades. I told him how difficult but important I found socializing, how it made me feel human again. I told him about my goats, the ones I named after old army buddies and my parents and Shuri, just to make her mad. And I told him how badly his silence hurt me.

It wasn’t so much that I blamed him for wanting to leave me behind; I really did understand that. My presence, my existence was a reminder of the life he lost years ago _and_ the normalcy he lost only recently. I’m sure it was easier for him to cut me out than to face both of those things at once. But I didn’t understand _how_ he could totally leave me behind, not after what he had done for me. He stopped his life in its tracks, dragged me from the gutter, shattered his status quo, and found the only solution in the world to the problem of Him in my head. All of these things point to a commitment to someone. What I heard when he came to save me from the world that was ready to demonize me was _I choose you, Bucky._ But his radio fucking silence after he left me made me rethink that.

All of this, swirling in my head, glued me to the spot in front of my bathroom mirror as I heard an engine die in front of my house. I couldn’t even turn around when I heard a soft knock on my flimsy front door. “Bucky?” His voice was soft and cautious through the screen window. I knew he could see me because my house is so small there isn’t anywhere to hide.

I turned around, all nerves inside but hopefully not betraying that on the out, and caught my first sight of him in months. It almost knocked the breath out of me. He was rougher around the edges than I’d ever seen him, sure, with hair too long and a beard sprouting where he had always been clean-shaven, but _god_ it was good to see him again. He stared at me, face all Serious Captain America and no trace of Steve Rogers. We stood there for a beat, both staring at each other across a room and through a screen door, before he sheepishly said, “Can I, uhh, can I come in?”

“Are you crazy?” I said, smirking. “Let the most wanted man in the world into my house? Do I _look_ like the kind of man who would harbor a fugitive?”

His grim demeanor broke into a smile— _god_ I loved that smile—before he said, “Well, actually, you really really do.” He opened the door and stooped a little to step inside my home. It looked even smaller with him inside, with its kitchen-bedroom-dining room-in-one floorplan, but seeing him in this space that had given me shelter and safety in my new life felt _right_. He looked slightly uncomfortable and started to take a step toward me but stopped himself short.

I stepped out of my bathroom and leaned against my dresser, trying to display a cool I definitely did not feel. “You got me there, Captain,” I said, quieter than I intended to be. There was another beat of silence, me leaning on the dresser for support my nerves were not giving me and Steve shifting on his feet, visibly discomforted. “So, what brings you to my neck of the woods,” I said and, before he could answer, added, “after all this time?” I said it without thinking, but as soon as it hung in the air between us, I realized how angry I was. Maybe it wasn’t fair to him, but in the split second it took for me to say it, I went from fawning over the sight of him to totally and miserably angry.

Steve’s face fell. This made me feel worse. He started to speak but stopped himself short again. I didn’t budge, just planted my arm defiantly on the dresser and waited for his response. He looked at his feet, sighed, then looked up at me again. His eyes caught me off guard. They held so much pain, so much more than I had ever seen in them. I had seen Steve go through so much awful shit in his life, but this was the first time he hadn’t tried to hide the anguish on his face from me. It nearly knocked the wind out of me, and it certainly knocked my planted arm to my side. “I’m so sorry, Buck,” he said softly. His eyes pleaded with me to understand, and even though I wanted to rush over and place a soft hand on his face and tell him it was all alright, I _didn’t_ understand. So I said nothing.

“I didn’t mean to wait this long to come see you,” he continued. “I—ugh how do I say this—“ he said as he started pacing a little. In such a small space he looked ridiculous walking back and forth.

“Buck, listen. Shit was hard right after I left you here. I had to figure out what my next steps were. There were people depending on me to get them through the thick of it, you know?” He looked up at me from where he had been gazing at the floor, but continued pacing when he saw my expression unchanged. “Well, maybe you don’t know. I guess I didn’t talk much on our way here that day. After we left that bunker that day, I had to get everybody who helped us—helped me—out of hot water. Clint and Sam and Wanda, they needed protection. I had to set up new lives for all of us. I couldn’t just leave them to rot in cells for helping me.

“So I got caught up in that, which took longer than I expected it would. I didn’t think I could risk contacting T’Challa for a while, in case anyone suspected him of, I don’t know, foul play. And even when I did think it was safe to check in, I wasn’t sure how safe it was for me to, you know, talk to _you_.” He looked up at me when he said “you,” his face flushed a little red.

“Why not?” I asked blankly. I didn’t want to be cold; this isn’t how I imagined a reunion between us to go, but my sudden anger was still raging. He had been out there holding the hands of people who needed him, whom he cared about, but never stopped to consider I might need him too? I was physically safe, yeah, but didn’t he think I might also have needed him to help me settle into a new life?

He looked surprised, then stricken. “Because, I guess, I wasn’t sure how it would affect you, uh, me, uh, well, _us_ , really.” He stared at his feet here and I was glad for that because hearing him say “us,” even in this context, made my heart seize, and I’m _sure_ it showed on my face. “I was really worried about you,” he said in a very small voice. “I knew that Shuri was the best shot at helping you, but I was scared that hearing from me would undo her hard work. We’re all tangled up, Buck, our pasts and our presents. I thought the best thing for you might be, well, a clean break. A chance at a new life, no baggage.” He looked up at me expectantly.

I was dumbfounded. Of all the reasons I imagined for him to not contact me, fear he might make me feel worse never crossed my mind. He continued to stare at me, obviously waiting for a response.

“Are you _fucking with me_?” I said. Steve looked shocked. He stammered a bit in response, and I held up a hand to quiet him. Before I could help it, I started laughing. He looked absolutely bewildered now. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t be laughing,” I said, snickering in between each breath, “but for one of the sharpest guys I know, sometimes you are so stupid, Rogers.”

Looking as confused as ever, he said, “What does that mean?!”

I managed to stop laughing and heaved myself out of my leaning position. “Steve,” I said, looking at him dead in the face and gesturing a little wildly with my arm, “the only thing that ever saved me when I was feeling out of control was you.” His furrowed brow dropped and his lips parted. Feeling bolder than I had in a long time, I continued. “How do you think I managed to keep it tamped down those years when I was in hiding? You couldn’t find me back then because I wasn’t acting like the fuckin’ Winter Soldier, and the only way I managed to do that is by holding on to the thought of _you_ , you moron!” I laughed a little again, but Steve remained expressionless. “Since that day I pulled you from the river, you were the only thing left for me to care about. My life was long gone, pal, except I knew you were still around. That kept me going. And, for another thing, you really thought just _hearing your voice_ would trigger me? You really don’t trust Shuri, huh?” I raised an eyebrow at him, and my jab brought back signs of life in his face.

A little offended, he said, “Of course I trust her!” And then his tone shifted, serious and low, “I just, I don’t know—I guess I didn’t want you to think that you, uh, owed me anything.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand as he spoke. “I came to find you that day in Romania because I let myself hope, despite everything, that you were yourself again—that you remembered me. I _needed_ you to have remembered me. It was mostly selfish; I knew that if you had really wanted to see me, you could have found me.

“And all that stuff I did, fighting Stark and all that shit, I did that because I wanted to, Buck. I missed the chance to tell you that on our way here; I was thinking too much about myself, as usual. But,” he paused for a second and looked at me apologetically before continuing hurriedly, “I know you. And I know you must have been feeling like, I don’t know, like you owed me for it. So, I just wanted you to have some time by yourself, I guess. I didn’t want to you to force me into your new life, even though, _god_ , I wanted to see you again, because you felt like you had to make it up to me.” His face was a red I hadn’t seen it be since he accidentally walked in the girl’s locker room on our first day of seventh grade. He was looking at his feet, willing himself to not catch my eye.

If he had bothered to look up, I’m pretty sure he would have been able to literally see the anger melting off of me. Before I registered what I was doing, I crossed the room to him. Gently, I put my hand on the elbow of the arm that was vigorously rubbing his neck. He looked up, and even though there was still a good foot and a half between us, I swear I could feel the heat coming off his body. “I didn’t want to hear from you because I thought I owed you,” I said. “I wanted to hear from you because I missed you.” Our eyes stayed locked and our arms frozen in place. Saying it out loud felt like a small weight had been taken off my chest, and I wanted to lighten the load even more.

“It’s me and you, Steve. For me, it’s always been me and you. No matter where, or I guess, _when_ we are, I want to be near you. To be _with_ you.” I felt my breath hitch and couldn’t say any more. Steve looked frozen, and suddenly my hand on his skin felt intrusive, so I took it away, dragging my fingertips along the back of his arm as I went—one final intrusion, I guess.

I didn’t look away and neither did he, but his face was unreadable. _Not particularly subtle, Barnes_ , I thought to myself. But what was the point of being subtle? I was old and tired and couldn’t keep up the pretense anymore. Maybe he didn’t need to know, but I didn’t want to hide it for one more second. He hadn’t needed to worry about forcing himself into my life; he _was_ my life. Had always been my life.

The silence began to sting, so I glanced down and started to say “I’m sorr—” but before I could get the word out, he wrapped a large hand around my forearm and stepped gently within inches of me. My eyes snapped back up and met his, which were intense and steady. My breath halted in my chest; I was too scared to spoil the moment that I didn’t even want to move my lungs. Steve moved his left hand from my arm to my hip, and that touch felt like it was nailing me to the earth. Slowly his right hand moved into my vision, and he placed it gently on my face. We stood like this for a moment, breathless, and the few inches between us stung me physically. It was like those hours on the plane, where the space where our sides met felt electric, except magnified by my admission. The tension this time was spoken, known, given a name.

His face softened, which I could tell only by the slackening in his forehead because our faces were so close, and his thumb ran up and down my cheek. “Me and you, huh?” he said, voice softer than the wind outside. And then his lips touched mine. Lightly at first, like it was a test. I nearly froze underneath his mouth; I had wanted this for so long and wasn’t sure it was real, I guess. But when he pulled away cautiously, hand still cupping my chin, I realized I would probably die on the spot if he stopped kissing me.

So with maybe more force than I meant to or was needed, I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him back to me. If this was a fluke, a one-time mistake on his part, I was going to make it count. Our mouths connected again, both soft and wanting. His grip on my face and hip tightened, and I could feel his touch radiate through my whole body. We didn’t even stop to breathe. I tried to put all the years between us into my kiss, to somehow communicate to him that this, _god, yes, this_ , was all I ever wanted. His mouth moved against mine, hungrier than I expected, and his left hand snaked around my waist, closing the small gap between us. I felt all my carefully placed walls and protections fall away and melted into him. In that moment there was nothing else. Just him, all of him, surrounding me, touching me, proving to me that I hadn’t been wrong to hope.

After what could have been an entire hour or only a minute, he broke away, loosened his grip around my waist, and pulled back. Against my will, I let out a noise I never knew I could make. Steve immediately started giggling like a schoolkid. “Bucky Barnes, did you just _whine_?”

I’ve never known myself to blush, but if I were capable of it, I probably did in this moment. “Maybe!” I shot back. “I, just, uhh, didn’t want you to stop, I guess,” I said a little sheepishly. And then, more quietly, “Didn’t want you to have time to stop and think about it.”

He looked sad, for just a moment, and rubbed my cheek with his thumb again. “Buck, I’ve been thinking about this, _exactly this_ , for a long, long time,” he said.

To prevent my heart from physically bursting out of my chest, I slammed myself back into him so hard I knocked him over a bit—(not an easy feat, when you think about it). He laughed against my mouth, but happily wrapped himself around me again. Pressed against him, I felt like I was both whole and home, two things I thought I had lost forever.

Logically, I know that we stopped kissing at some point, but it really doesn’t feel that way to me. Steve has to come and go often, always being whisked away on a world-saving mission or simply trying to throw someone off his scent again, and the time he’s not here burns, but he always comes back now. And when he’s back, I would estimate we spend all of two cumulative minutes not touching each other. We’re a little bit like 90-year-old teenagers, I guess, but I know for both of us it’s more than that. Touching him, having him touch me, feels like I’m grounded for the first time. It’s a reminder that, yes, I’m here, and I’m whole, and he is here with me. Our time, for most of both of our lives, has not belonged to us. And now that we have reclaimed it, neither of us wants to let go.

Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, together where they belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for reading! This was my first fic in years, and I was really nervous to post it. But if you stuck around until this chapter 3 end note, that means you gave me a chance, and for that I'm thankful! Thanks for indulging my deep need to explore my babe Mr. James Buchanan Barnes. <3
> 
> comments & kudos are so appreciated!


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